Simon crept out of the jungle into the sodden garden. The rain pounded down harder than ever. He would have to move quickly now to take the most advantage of the clamor on the metal roof. In ten seconds he had picked his way across the garden and stood in the partial shelter of the back veranda. Peeking up over the floor into the breezeway, he could see nothing of the two sentries. He moved two steps to his right and adroitly scaled the bracing timbers, softly climbing over the railing onto the veranda, shielded from any detection from within the breezeway by the back wall of the storeroom. Simon edged to the corner of the breezeway and peeked again . . . still no sign of the sentries. The rain continued to pound a cacophony upon the roof.

Simon slipped around the corner and took two short steps to the storeroom door. It was slightly ajar, opening inward. ‘God, who planned this job? This game is easy!’ Now, however, the blood began pumping wildly in Simon’s neck, and his hand began to tremble slightly. He was suddenly short of breath! He had never shot a man before. He was aware of his heart thumping brazenly in his chest, and he prayed it be still. ‘It’s just a goddam Jap. Take it easy!’

He stepped into the storeroom. It was empty, as he himself had left it. He left the door to the dark breezeway open. Four steps ahead of him was the narrow door leading into the office. It was closed, but Simon knew that it was unlocked, for he himself had busted the rusted padlock while moving the storeroom supplies. All he had to do was open it and . . . ! The rain pounded on as he crept to the door. He paused to let his breath catch up. A thin shaft of weak light from the solitary lamp sneaked into the storeroom through the narrow crack between the edge of the door and the jamb. Simon peeked through the crack, careful not to touch door or wall. There, not more than four feet in front of him, with his back to the storeroom, sat a uniformed figure, a Jap by his uniform, and an officer of some sort by his epaulets. Simon couldn’t see his face. So, this was the sonofabitch that had killed his Grampa! His right hand, now calmed by the quiet rage within, drew the Mars pistol smoothly from its holster. Simon softly knelt down on one knee to steady himself and, holding the Mars in his right hand, gently pushed on the door with the muzzle of the gun. As the rain continued to pound on the roof, the door opened noiselessly. A foot . . . fifteen inches . . . all that he needed. He now added his left hand to help steady the gun. The Jap officer hadn’t moved. He was holding something small in his hands and studying it intently, apparently at peace, absorbed, completely unaware of Simon’s presence.

Simon extended the Mars at arm’s length, pointing it directly at the back of the officer’s head. How black, how straight, was his hair . . . not like Jacob’s. That scrawny neck and shoulders. He wasn’t at all like the fine man he had murdered a few hours ago . . . disgustingly different from that proud pinnacle of strength, the only father that Simon ever had! The Mars jumped violently in his two hands as it roared. The Jap lurched forward, pitching face down, arms outstretched, over Jacob’s rosewood table. His spectacles leaped from his head and skittered across the plank floor. The Jap was dead even before his face splattered against the opposite wall.

Simon was fully expecting and prepared for what happened next. Still in a kneeling position he pivoted to his left, steadying the back of his left hand low against the door jamb. He trained his two-handed cannon on the door that would be flung open any instant now. The sentry never knew what hit him . . . never saw the short muzzle that exploded from in back of the stricken body of his lieutenant . . . never even noticed his assailant shielded behind the body and the heavy rosewood table. The .45 caliber slug smashed into his chest, knocking him back out of the doorway he had just stepped through. Eyes wide in wonder, he plummeted backwards into his unsuspecting fellow sentry, who dropped his rifle and toppled to the floor with his dead compatriot in his lap.

Simon sensed it was now time to do the running that he had spoken of to L.J. He arose from his firing position and darted to the door, the Mars still clutched firmly in his right hand. As he raced out the door, he instinctively glanced to his right down the breezeway toward the office door. There sat the awed second sentry, weighted down with the body of the first, both bathed in the light of the single lamp that still glowed bravely through the open doorway. For the third time in seven seconds the vengeful Mars bellowed, and another war casualty for the green platoon was knocked back flat against the floor.

In a flash Simon was out of the breezeway and over the railing, landing in the sudden wetness, then stumbling through the pelting downpour over the sodden vegetable garden. Blindly he dashed toward the jungle, his eyes seeing only lamplight. He tripped over the first bush he came upon and fell flat on his face, sprawling into the underbrush. Suddenly Little John was there to grab him by the belt and pull him back to a standing position. “Get your dead arse up and let’s get the Hell out of here!” Holding and guiding Simon by the left arm, the two worked feverishly through the overgrown plantation, noiselessly passing Jacob’s and Joria’s resting place and then behind the workers’ quarters where the single lamp was still lit. James did not reappear. He had evidently fled at the first shot. They quickly gained the work road and recrossed the main track. Simon’s eyes were by now reaccustomed to the darkness. In a few minutes they had gained the lang-lang, where they stopped to catch their breaths and listen. There was no sound behind them. A clean getaway! They had done it! They picked up their cane parters and disappeared into the tall, wet grass.